It’s springtime in Paris. Winter here lasted about 6 weeks, which is as long as Parisians can go without pavement cafes. The tables are all out on the street again, locals sitting braced against the March chill drinking their expressos and pretending to be in Italy.

I’ve been working in one of those cafes for the last three months, this one pretending to be “Scandinavian”. French people think Scandinavia is a really exotic place where the people all live in log cabins and hunt reindeer. (We don’t tell them that Scandinavians mostly live in drab apartment blocks and get depressed in winter.) Naturally the customers all assume I am Swedish too, an illusion I am of course only too happy to sustain.

Someone complained that I didn’t write enough about “Parisian boys” the last time. Well that was because I didn’t have anything to write! Things have changed a bit since then. So this time I’m not going to tell you enough about Parisian boys, but out of coyness not ignorance. The boring truth is that the guys here are pretty much like ones anywhere else, though they’re definitely more vain. One even asked me if I thought he danced well. Apart from that, Parisian boys are shorter and come in more colours and hairstyles than the ones in Edinburgh. Hope that’s useful, Mark.

What I have found a bit weird (and flattering) is the amount of sheer Anglomania there is. Parisians actually think English-speaking people are sophisticated! I’ve tried pointing out how misguided this on so many different levels, but it’s no use. On ads and clothes and and club flyers everywhere there are ironic (sometimes moronic) English slogans which clearly no-one really understands. And the club listings are full of entries like: “Livin’ Large: Before rock electro, Chicago bouncing house et underground culture, avec Ginger Ale, M. Zero et DJ Toast Ghost. Entrée libre”. Now what the hell language was that in? In any case as soon as people find out where I’m from I become the epitome of cool, the new Ambassador of Funkyland. None of which I could possibly dispute of course, but…

Having said that, it doesn’t stretch to politics. Everyone’s got something to say about this war business (mostly the same thing) – and you know me, I just can’t let it go unchallenged. So it’s been great for my French – you know, useful words like “resolve” and “backbone”. In the process I seem to have become a special envoy for Our Dear Leader Tony (ahem, sorry about this, Lib Dems). So far I’ve only lost one or two of my new pals.

It was really nice to come back to Edinburgh for that weekend a month or two ago. Apart from anything else I got to go on the Eurostar! But seriously, I do miss you all. I quite miss a bit of financial security too, but that’s not nearly so important.

Gotta go to bed, work in the morning. Luckily I’ve long stopped dreaming of herring salads and reindeer baguettes.

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